Preying Eyes
by LuciusMCassius Yari
Summary: Sauron's Tale. Some Yoai.


**Preying Eyes**

**Disclaimer**: All is Tolkien's. Fear and Despair.

**Warning**: Slash. Yoai Innuendo. Sauron before he became a medieval Darth Vader. 

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I have never kept a journal before, nor do I plan to start one now. I am writing this, not knowing why. I suppose I am scared. Why shouldn't I be? I am all alone in this world, with nothing but you, beloved parchment, and I need to talk to someone, because I know for a fact that I can't strike up a conversation with myself. So here we are. 

Let me first tell you that you are in the poisonous land of Mordor. It is a dry, barren place, always dark and dusty. An unbearable stench exudes from the ground and the acidic clouds; I can't escape from it, no matter how hard I try. I will become accustomed to it in a few years, but for now my sinuses throb in pain, and beside you on this very desktop, my kerchief lies bloody from a chronic nosebleed. 

Beyond the borders of festering toxins and unbearable reeking of this desolate wasteland lies my home. It is green and soft and bright, nothing like the shadowy terrain of Mordor, and the more I think of it, the farther away it seems. I mustn't dwell on that wondrous place. Mordor is my home now. And it will always be, so long as my golden companion is not by my side.

I am Sauron, The Lord of the Rings, the Necromancer, the Red Eye. I came from the sea. Though I remember very little, I was physically battered by the waves and by the hands of others when I reached the shore. When the Elves discovered me I was cold and soaking and naked, with no memories save my name, and the name of one other: **_Morgoth_**. Even now, I know not to whom it belongs, only that it causes my heart to beat with a dark, incurable rage. It is an evil, virulent word that crackles in my blood like a lightning storm on slick metal. If I ever find the man who bears this name I will tear him apart with my bare hands, and let his blood and life drain from his body. You must understand that my very first conscious thought was one of pain and terror-of **_Morgoth_**. 

Forgive me. You must be confused. Let me tell you what I am, then you will understand. I am a creature unlike any in the Middle Earth. I have dark, smooth skin, an attribute unknown to all but the wild Eastern men, and an annoyingly wild mane of hair that begins with an exaggerated widow's peak, and ends in thick tendrils. I might have fit in with the Men on Middle Earth, for I was no taller than they, nor did I have the fairness of the Elves. I might have fit in, had I not been cursed with my eyes. A killer's eyes. That's what Gil-galad the Elf had told me, after staring at me in a less than appreciative manner. I had the eyes of a feral hunter, hungry for something beyond the simple rabbit or fish. To Gil-galad, I had the look of a man-eater, eager to wet my palate with the warm blood of a fresh kill. But then again, Gil-galad and I never got along very well.

It was my eyes and temperament that alienated me from every race on Middle Earth. I was lonely, and it drove me to a bitterness and chilled anger that only drove others even further away. It was a massive cycle of destruction that bode ill for all in my path. And the whole time I quarreled and bickered and fought, his name kept surfacing in my subconscious, like an incurable parasite, an unreachable parasite. It was because of **_Morgoth _**that I was so unhappy. It was all his fault, even if I had no understanding as to why. I didn't even know who he was. To escape it all, I fled from my elf home and took to traveling the Middle Earth.

After years of isolation and wandering, something in me clicked. I connected discovered a formidable and seductive power inside me, simmering just beneath the reaches of my tormented mind. On the day my bitterness and resentment of the world became raw, undiluted hatred, that power boiled over, swelling into the eager recesses of my body like a deadly poison. I was no longer a scared child, nor was I a sullen youth. I had blossomed into maturity, and for the rest of eternity called Sauron the Black. 

Even when I returned to my home among the elves, I was far from content. With my newfound power, I could out do the mightiest of lords, and slay the finest warriors. Yet I was still lonely. Being alone, having no one to love- perhaps that is what caused me to lapse into madness. It was not a violent insanity, but a plotting, vicious rage. I watched the elves flounce around in their gaiety and the dwarves guffaw at their dirty jokes, and knew that unless I did something, I would never be able to experience those simple pleasures. My madness was one of desperation; for everyday I became less liked, and I could feel pairs of caustic eyes burning through my skull as I walked through the streets. How would I ever find company if I was hated? Straining my ears, I could hear Morgoth's distant giggles, cruel and high-pitched. He was laughing at me.

I had a recurrence of never answered questions that had been asked long ago in my youth. Who was I? What was I? Was there anyone else on Middle Earth that was like me?  Would I really be alone for my entire life? My feeble heart yearned for a companion that looked like me, that was from the sea as well. As a young boy newly found on Middle Earth, I had wandered the shores for another, but was never rewarded. I began to do this again; only the hope that had once been in my eager mind was replaced with cynicism and doubt.  I was angry, hateful and homesick for a land I couldn't even remember. Scouring the beaches made me feel even worse, but it was away from all the staring eyes that looked at my face and my claw-like hands in horror and disgust. I wanted to find another like me so that everyone could see that I was not a freak. However, as you have guessed, Parchment, no one came. So I was left with one other option: make my own companion instead. 

I watched the great elf metal smiths work, and soaked in their knowledge like a dry sponge. After intense study and analyzing, the hammers hitting soft metal and the bursts of fire sparks began to meld into my mind, and an untapped reservoir of knowledge, perhaps concealed by the temporary loss of my memory, suddenly sprang into life. I looked at the elves and their techniques and found them inferior. When I stepped forward with my newfound knowledge I was mocked and belittled by all, but soon I was enjoying the last laugh, as the forges of Elves reached the height of their skill. I was there when the Three Rings were made, and admired at their power. It was satisfying to know that my companion would be greater in power than those made by the masters of elven metal working. At this point, my sudden interest in the Rings aroused suspicion from my enemies. Two elves in particular, Gil-galad, a pretty boy warrior, of no mentionable heritage, and Cellbrimbor, a decrepit old coot, confronted me, warning me of the consequences my "evil designs" would cause. 

It was obvious that I needed a new home. I searched for a secluded, yet protected area, where I could be alone with my companion, and where, most importantly, I could forge my companion. That is when I came upon Mordor. The land was not as barren and vitriolic as it is now, and the gloomy night sky seemed to reflect my very soul. It was surrounded on all sides by mountains, deserts, and marsh; a land no conqueror would wish to take. Using the knowledge I had gained over the last few years, I seduced the wild creatures that were native to Mordor, and made them my servants. The denizens of the dry rocky crags were the ancestors of Orcs, squirming, pig-like beasts, with no language or culture, only brute strength. While I seemed monstrous to the Elves and Men, I enjoyed them. The orcs and goblins looked on me with awe. It did wonders to be admired. They seemed to think of me as some dark deity, and in a twisted way, even though they were mere animals, I wanted them to be content under my wing. I gave them a language, the Black Speech, which would later be used by all who inhabited Mordor. Unfortunately, the Orcs spent the most of their energy inventing newer and more profound curses, tarnishing the delicacy of my creation.  And, while it never came to be the poetic tongue I had hoped, it did become oddly expressive in its own way, acquiring over 250 synonyms for various types of excrement and bodily functions. It was clear that I would never be able to send an orc on a mission that required negotiation. Or anything, for that matter, that required something besides fighting. Bending the backs of those powerful beasts to my will, I had them build me a magnificent Black Tower, which I dubbed Barad-dur.

After all my preparations of an alternate home, I finally began to craft my ring. I took the required tools and material with me to Mount Doom and spent two years forging the Lord of all other Rings. It would be the one ruling ring of the Middle Earth, and I would be the one to wear it. It was a plain gold sliver, inscribed with my hand, in my language, the Black Tongue, in runes that would never fade. I put it on my index finger and felt all my anxiety fade. The ring sang softly to me and I sang back. We were meant to be together, for it understood me as I did it. I would never let such beauty off my finger-ever. In the distance, Morgoth stopped laughing. 

 In the soft songs my companion and I shared, I began to feel a deep desire for more. I was powerful now, and I wanted to see just how long and deadly my reach was. I would find out only too soon. Gil-galad the elf had convinced the kingdoms of Numenor and Lorien that I was a threat that needed to be erased. An army of fifty thousand elf archers and human warriors rode on Barad-dur. The odds were overwhelmingly against my orcs and goblins, and I resorted to guerilla tactics that merely delayed the enormous army. The night the raid on my tower would begin, I locked myself in the highest most chamber and talked to my companion. It comforted me, I was not weak, I would not die, my ors and goblins had done all they could and the rest was up to me, Sauron. With the ring on my finger, I willed myself to appear before Gil-galad. I saw the pretty man, sleeping contently in his tent, at peace and smiling. The image shimmered before me until I was surrounded by it, and then it became still. I exhaled sharply, amazed. I had gone from my room to the warrior's Spartan tent. I did not wait for him to sense my presence; I lashed out with my claws, my hideous, terrible claws that I had hidden in metal gloves until now. They were strong and terrifying; Gil-galad woke with my razor talons around his neck, and found himself eye to eye with a creature he had not prepared himself for. My eyes glowed with an unearthly golden light, and I had curled my lips, showing rows of jagged teeth. Looking back on it, I now understand the words he had squeaked before I tore him apart. 

"A sharkling!! O dear lady, a shark has climbed form the sands of the sea!!"

The elves tell the story of Gil-galad as though he was a hero, but there wouldn't have been a war if he had left me to my surly affairs. I separated every limb from his torso, and let his blood drench my hair and hands and clothes.  I emerged form his tent almost completely scarlet, my expression was the duplicate of a cat that had licked a bowl of cream clean. His guard lay asleep at the entrance, snoring softly. I killed him with his own sword, twisting it about in his chest cavity watching him writhe and try to scream, but no sound flowed from his throat. He dropped to the ground, completely limp. I was yet to be realized by the living of the camp. I was naive to hope that Gil-galad's death would send the army away.

 While wandering the enemy camp, I was careful to slink about in a snake-ish fashion, making no noise and no jerking movements. I was seen by no one, and I approached the clearing where the King of the Numenoreans had pitched his tent. I was less than pleased to find that he was still awake, sharpening his sword. His back was turned to me as I lifted the tent flap, but I could see he was someone who couldn't be taken lightly. His shoulders were nearly twice as broad as mine, and the sword he held in his lap was thick and wide, the hilt over two feet long. I let out a breath of surprise, and he turned to face me. His eyes, oh, his eyes! They were just like mine!! Though not identical in appearance, I could see that he too, held a strange, predatorial power. He was more surprised than I; he dropped his sword, and stood up in a manner less graceful than a plucked chicken. He stared at me for several moments before speaking.

"Who…are you?" 

I tucked my claws into my sleeves and spoke to him as I would to my golden companion. 

"I am the Red Eye, my lord, and I have come to help you in your endeavors."

He raised his eyebrows and looked me up and down, and I became uncomfortably aware of my eyes and dark ashy skin-of my abnormalities.

"You are not of the Middle Earth." 

He stated the obvious, and I smiled.

"No, my lord, but if you give me a chance, I will prove my worth to you." 

The Ring glinted in the candlelight and I licked my lips nervously. Nervously? Why was I being so damned nervous around a human? Maybe it was because he had a foot of height on me; and I was surrounded on all sides by his men, if he roused them. But instead of calling out, he drew close to me and seized my wrist, pulling my claw from my sleeve. He looked long at the thick ivory-colored talons, now stained in blood, then took his leathery palms and touched my face. I suppressed the urge to draw back, and closed my eyes, enjoying the alien sensation of another's fingers on my skin. I heard him sigh, and opened my eyes. I was amazed at what I saw; by some twist of fate generously provided by the glimmering ring on my hand, I was now in control of the giant man. I had seduced the King of Numenor. 

Many years passed afterwards, Parchment, too many to write. The King of Numenor took me by the waist and dis-assembled his army, now that the Dark One was nowhere to be found. I lived with him in the lands of Westernesse and wrought destruction upon the untainted kingdom. After corrupting the king and the kingdom, there would be no threat on my homeland of Mordor and being at the king's side was like pouring poison into the very aorta of the land's heart. The country of Numenoria was brought to its knees in less than a century. The King, who had lived a life three times longer than that of any ordinary man, died in his sleep. I was alone again. Only my golden companion would remain with me for eternity. Or so I thought. Elendil, the younger brother of my king, fled from the fallen kingdom and found refuge with the elves. With Elendil was the King's only son and heir, Isildur, and the two of them had finally perceived my true identity. They warned the elves of my re-appearance, and no sooner had I gotten home, was an elite Army led by the High Elves knocking at the door of Mordor. I had not expected such an attack, and had no time to call forth any semblance of an army. Whatever troops I had were decimated and my tower was seized and burned. My beautiful home, which I had spent so much energy to build, was ruined by the fist of those that saved me from the dark watery depths of the ocean. It was crushing, but for some reason, I found it hilarious. 

When the elves found me I was laughing. I laughed as they charged at me, and I unsheathed my claws, ripping warriors who had lived long lives limb from limb. I had laughed as Isildur himself, along with Elendil came at me, and I had giggled when my hand imbedded itself in Elendil's chest, ripping through the soft lung and muscle tissue. I had laughed when they cut me over and over with their blades, hewing my unblemished skin, and when Isildur's sword came down on my index finger, severing the ring from my body. I was laughing when I ran away, leaving a pile of bodies that included Elendil behind. 

As far as I know now, Isildur took the ring, and lost it to the sea. And I am waiting, dear Parchment, in my ruined tower; here in Mordor, for the day that my companion comes out of the sea as I once did. And I won't ever be alone again. 

END


End file.
